


Rule the World

by Anonymous



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Alpha Lalo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Lalo mothering Nacho and cooking for him is my kink, M/M, Poor Life Choices, domesticity in hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23727931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Get Lalo to trust you, then,” Mike drawled in that infuriating monotone.“How the hell am I suppose to do that?”“You know what you have to do,” the old bastard said without pause.Nacho bristled immediately, “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re implying.”
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84
Collections: anonymous





	Rule the World

**Author's Note:**

> Could not resist writing something for this tiny fandom with all its gifted writers. 
> 
> I know zero Spanish, so assume they are speaking in a mix of Spanish and English. I didn’t write it for any specific time/episode, so assume Season 5 in general?

Nacho couldn’t quite figure Lalo Salamanca out.

For one thing, Salamancas didn't smile. Ever. The guy currently in his passenger seat sucking obnoxiously on a sugary soft drink did. Constantly.

Then, there was Lalo's weird insistence on feeding Nacho. It wasn’t something that was associated with alphas. Being domestic and nurturing was often associated with the less dominant class. But Nacho supposed it was a possibility that not every Salamanca fit perfectly into their gender stereotypes.

And the lack of scent cues. That bothered him the most. There was no doubt Lalo was an alpha. He could tell the moment he’d walked in on the man cooking in the kitchen that first afternoon. But aside from the natural confidence in the way Lalo carried himself, there wasn’t much else. He always smelled faintly of expensive cologne and a hint of engine grease from working under the hood of his car all day. Nothing aggressive like the rest of the Salamanca men. It was just a bit unsettling. Nacho knew how to read Hector, Tuco, and the Cousins, but with this guy, it was like stumbling in a forest at the dead of night with a blindfold on.

“Hey, make a turn up ahead, will you?” Lalo said suddenly in Spanish, interrupting his train of thought. He pointed the large plastic cup at the open road in front of them, little droplets of condensation splashing onto the leather seat between his spread thighs. Nacho clenched his teeth in annoyance and jerked the steering wheel. Gravel crunched beneath them. Lalo turned to him with a raised eyebrow, those large piercing eyes settling on the side of his face.

“What?” He asked, voice gone flat.

The collar of his white linen shirt flapped merrily against his neck in the warm, dry wind. Nacho contemplated lying, but it's been a long day and he was exhausted. They’d been driving aimlessly over the barren countryside and stopping at random places for the better part of a day, and at this point, he was pretty much out of fucks to give.

“I don’t like it when people eat or drink in my car,” He muttered, the leather grip of the wheel creaking beneath his tightening fingers. He regretted the words immediately. If it were Tuco, he’d have a gun pressed to Nacho’s temple in a heartbeat after that announcement, face purpling in rage at the utter disresp—

“Aww, but I’m not finished yet,” Lalo whined like a disappointed six-year-old, shaking the white cup and making the ice rattle within. It had the unfortunate effect of peppering his jeans with more droplets of cold water.

“It’s not good for you, that much sugar.” Nacho thought he should probably try to salvage the situation. It was best not to anger a Salamanca. He’d learned that the hard way.

“Ok,” Lalo shrugged after a pause, and to Nacho’s surprise, chucked the soft drink out the open window. The silver Honda behind them honked angrily. Lalo threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right, Nachito, that reaction was way better than getting Type II diabetes.”

They drove for a few more minutes in silence. Lalo didn't seem visibly upset about being told off. He drummed his fingers aimlessly on side of Nacho’s car, the setting sun casting his silhouette in gold. Lalo looked almost god-like, invincible even. Nacho swallowed back the cold, nauseating dread crawling up his throat and kept his eyes firmly on the road.

“You can leave me here, Ignacio,” Lalo said eventually. Nacho was not quite sure where they were, but up ahead, there was a row of warehouses, stacked neatly in a semicircle like teeth. Lalo flashed him a bright toothy grin and patted him on the closest knee. His palm was shockingly warm past the layer of denim. “I’ll see you tomorrow, eh? Keep up the good work, man!”

He climbed out of the car. Nacho waited for Lalo to pull the duffle-bag out of the trunk. He should ask the man if he wanted Nacho to pick him up later, but Lalo shouldered his pack without so much as a backwards glance.

So Nacho left.

* * *

“I don’t know what he’s up to,” He huffed, repeating the words for the tenth time to the old man. Mike just stood there, impassive and still in the flood of headlight coming from Nacho’s Javelin. He swiped a frustrated hand over his upper lip, “He just has me driving him to places and dropping him off, ok? He still doesn’t tell me shit.”

“Get Lalo to trust you, then,” Mike drawled in that infuriating monotone.

“How the hell am I suppose to do that?”

“You know what you have to do,” the old bastard said without pause. Nacho bristled immediately, “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re implying.”

Silence fell between them. His face felt too hot. Shit, what did he just blurt out loud?

“That’s not what I meant, Varga,” Mike said slowly, “You’re a smart kid, I’m sure you can figure something out. But remember, clock’s ticking.”

* * *

He woke up in a pool of cold sweat come Monday morning. There was that familiar itch deep in his gut again. Nacho’s body did this some times, an unavoidable effect of being on heavy-duty suppressants since presenting as an omega at 16. Once or twice a year, he had to take a week off and cycle through the hormones. It was usually mild and he slept through most of it. Tuco was aware, and it had never come up as an issue in all the years he’d worked for the Salamancas. He expected it to be the same this time.

He staggered out of bed. Amber and Jo were nowhere to be found, which was actually a relief. He found their bland beta scents irritating during his cycles. Nacho grabbed the phone off the kitchen counter and dialed Domingo’s number first. He knew the drill. Then, Lalo’s.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you ok there, Varga?” His voice was too loud and too cheerful this early in the morning. It grated on Nacho’s raw nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “You sound like shit, my man. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just need a few days off,” He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to keep his voice light, “Domingo and the crew will take over for a while, Lalo. I promise you won’t even know I’m not there.”

“Oh, but you know I will, Ignacio. You’re my favorite, how could I not notice, hmm?” The man on the other end purred, and despite the terrible sound quality of his flip phone, Nacho felt heat blossom in his lower abdomen. It was just a natural physiological response. It was to be expected during his cycle. He took a shaky breath and exhaled carefully.

“Bye, Lalo,” He said and hung up.

Nacho glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was barely eight in the morning.

“Fucking Salamancas,” He groaned and went back to bed.

* * *

When he next opened his eyes, there was the faint scent of something delicious and warm permeating the dark bedroom. Nacho fumbled for his phone and squinted at the too-bright display. It read 7:30 PM. He’d slept through the better part of a whole day. Head still throbbing faintly, he stumbled down the steps in his boxers. His papá would sometimes bring over food but the stuff Manuel bought never smelled this good. Nacho’s stomach rumbled as he rubbed a fist over his eye.

“Papá, where did you get the takeou—” The words died when he saw who was standing in his kitchen.

“Hey, look who’s up and about!” Lalo laughed, holding out both arms and grin much too wide. He had a knife from Nacho’s rack in one hand and a tomato in the other. Nacho’s first instinct was to reach for his gun, but it was lying on the sofa with his crumpled jeans from last night.

“Come on,” Lalo’s lips pulled down in a mocking image of a pout as he pointed the knife at Nacho’s bare chest, “that’s not how you greet someone who’s made you fresh tamales, Nachito.”

“You…what?” He was having a hard time understanding the words pouring from Lalo’s mouth. There was no hint of engine grease on him today. Lalo just smelled of his usual brand of cologne and sweet corn. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of you, of course,” He replied cheerfully, waltzing over to the sink to wash his hands. Nacho watched as he dried them on a pristine white towel that he tossed onto one broad shoulder. He didn't recall ever owning such a towel or the hideous tropical pineapple print apron the older man was wearing around his waist. Lalo snapped his fingers and pointed to the nearest stool, “Go sit, I’ll get you some orange juice.”

“How?” Nacho managed to say, still rooted to the spot.

“ _Ayyy, so many questions, Ignacio,_ ” Lalo moaned in Spanish, and Nacho stifled a startled yelp when the alpha whacked him on the hip with the towel, “Your little friend Ocho Loco told me you were sick. Now go sit before you pass out. You look like that corpse Marco dragged out of a well when he was fourteen.”

Lalo set a tall glass of freshly squeezed juice in front of him and winked. Nacho’s eyes tracked the sway of his hips as he walked back over to the stove. He swallowed drily and tore his gaze away. Lalo was humming happily to himself while he diced the tomatoes. Nacho took a cautious sip of the orange juice. He was pretty sure Lalo wasn't here to poison him, but the mere fact that the man broke into his house just to cook was enough to set off alarm bells in Nacho’s head.

Had he gone through the rooms while Nacho lay sleeping upstairs? Rifled through his things? Could he be suspicious of Nacho?

“You need to eat more, Ignacio. Put some more meat onto those bones, man,” Lalo murmured absently, whisking the tomatoes neatly off the cutting board that Nacho definitely didn’t own. “I promise you’ll love these tamales.” He grinned, meeting Nacho’s dull eyes over the counter, “It’s my abuelita’s special recipe.”

Nacho hasn’t had hand-made tamales since his mother died. Manuel had never been much of a cook, and it always took so long to prepare. He used to sit with his mother while she and Nacho’s tía prepared the corn husks. Nacho glanced at the steamer on the stove. Just how long had Lalo been in his kitchen?

“Not that I don’t enjoy the view, but you want to maybe put on a shirt?” Lalo asked, cocking his head to the side. A lock of hair had fallen into his dark eyes. Nacho shivered, suddenly feeling more exposed than ever under that predatory gaze. He mumbled an excuse and stumbled to his feet. A faint smirk had spread itself over Lalo’s face as he watched Nacho struggle to maintain his usual composure.

“Relax, Nachito,” He said, attention finally going back to his cutting board, “I don’t bite unless asked to do so.”

Nacho was halfway to the stairs when the doorbell rang, a single clear note cutting through the peaceful sound of simmering pots and Lalo’s rhythmic chopping. He twisted to see the familiar shape of his father silhouetted in the doorway. No, he couldn’t be here, not while Lalo was still in his house.

“Is it Ocho Loco?” Lalo called out from the kitchen. Soft footsteps followed. Nacho gritted his teeth. There was no time to warn Manuel or get him to leave.

“It’s my papá,” He said softly, hand tight on the doorknob. His father rang the bell again.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Ignacio. Invite him in!” Lalo exclaimed jovially. He wiped his hands perfunctorily on his apron and shouldered past Nacho to ease open the front door.

“Mijo?” Manuel called out. “Are you ok? Your friend called, so I brought you food from that Chinese place.”

“Ah, so this is Señor Varga,” Lalo was saying, but Nacho could barely hear his voice over the rushing of blood in his ears. Damn Domingo, and damn himself for not coming up with a contingency plan. He should have known Lalo would fuck things up for him like he’d done to everything in Nacho’s life since he appeared in Albuquerque.

Manuel’s eyes flickered over his son’s naked chest and back to Lalo’s grinning face. Nacho could see the confusion setting in. Lalo had that affect on people sometimes.

“Who are you?” His papá asked in a guarded voice.

“Ignacio’s friend,” Lalo purred, a large hand settling oh-so-casually on Nacho’s bare waist. His smile was radiant as he gestured with his other hand, “come in, come in. We were just making food. Hope you like tamales, Señor Varga.”

“Manuel,” His father said, but his expression was still weary.

“Papá, you don’t have to. Really—” Nacho tried to say, but Lalo’s thumb against the knotted scar where the bullet had torn through his side stopped the rest of the words.

“Do come in, Manuel,” Lalo said, his smile never faltering, “I insist that you join us for dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love Lalo so much. He's such a great character. Poor Nacho though.


End file.
